


Prepare Yourself New Love to Entertain

by akathecentimetre



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/pseuds/akathecentimetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An entirely random (Obi-Wan centric) collection of kink prompt fills. Multiple pairings, some plot-based, others PWP.</p><p>Prompt 1 - Cody and Rex are given the chance to take care after Kadavo, and grab it with both hands. C/R/Obi-Wan.<br/>Prompt 2 - Senator Organa never expected to be married. Or at least, not lying about being engaged to an undercover agent... Bail/Obi-Wan.<br/>Prompt 3 - In the middle of a war, all sorts of magic can take place. Harry Potter/soulmarks AU, ObiAniDala.<br/>Prompt 4 - The man who killed his god seeks their most devoted servant, and former friend. Supernatural-ish AU, Obi-Wan/Darth Vader.<br/>Prompt 5 - An interlude between Asajj and Kenobi, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4532856/chapters/10315518">spies AU 'verse</a>.<br/>Prompt 6 - Anakin goes looking for someone to whom he owes a massive apology - among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this except that [this NSFW prompt generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/promptsnsfw) broke my brain. And also! That this first chapter is a sort-of follow-up to [a previous one-shot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3701845/chapters/8191627) I wrote, set post-Kadavo.

*

*

It’s always been something General Kenobi does, Rex knows – just a fact of _him_ , of who and what he is – that he’s always the one, no matter how distant or hurt or ill-equipped he might be, who takes on the burden of care: who makes sure he’s _there_ , that he’s what anyone might need, might want, might take advantage of (but no, it’s never advantage that’s taken – it’s a gift, first and foremost, and never anything less).

Rex doesn’t want for much, right now. He’s safe, for the first time in weeks. He’s not being beaten, also for the first time in what feels like an age. He’s no longer in the grip of some slaver, he doesn’t have – right now, anyway – any responsibilities, and, squashed into his purloined bunk, he’s got both Obi-Wan and Cody within a hand’s breadth, and that should be enough.

But the need – the need hasn’t gone away, and isn’t likely to, not with Cody thoroughly kissing the hurt out of his General’s mouth, and his free hand digging into Rex’s thigh like it’s a rebuke to the fact that he is, technically, the one that started this, and that if he doesn’t start participating he’s going to receive a reprimand far more important than anything in the GAR codes of conduct.

“Rex,” Obi-Wan whispers, in a brief moment where he pauses to breathe, and that’s all the signal Rex has been looking for, really. The acknowledgement of his name is enough.

He has Obi-Wan’s hips in his hands, pulls them to his, and when he slides a hand down between them and into the back of Kenobi’s pants the reaction is immediate (if this is what Force-sex is like, he realizes later, he’s going to want – need – a whole lot more of it). It could also just be the three of them in such close proximity, of course, but Rex wants to believe that the heat that washes over him is a whole that is more than the sum of their parts.

He has a finger inside Kenobi, then, and then two, and he wants to slow down but somehow knows he can’t, that his body is refusing to submit itself to anybody’s will. Obi-Wan is shaking in Cody’s arms thanks to him, is panting into Cody’s shoulder as they shuffle and turn and Rex has the whole curved length of Obi-Wan’s spine at the mercy of his mouth as Cody takes the weight of both of them; when Rex’s mind takes a wicked turn and realizes there’s more space in the bunk lengthways than sideways, it’s just a matter of wrapping an arm around Kenobi and tugging him closer, pressing quick kisses to his cheek from behind, until there’s room for Obi-Wan’s lips to be trailing down Cody’s stomach, and then – recognizing some sort of brotherhood, or just the habits of someone he’s known and loved for so long (and so often), Rex sees that same need in Cody’s normally quiet face, and Obi-Wan laughs softly, as though he’s been waiting for this, exactly.

Cody’s cock goes loose in his mouth when Rex starts fucking into him; he recovers quickly, though, takes the hard snap of Rex’s hips against him and ducks his head down further, rolls a shoulder into Rex’s hand, his head into the grip Cody has on his hair. Distantly, Rex knows this must be a Jedi thing – it must be, because otherwise it’s not fair how he’s so pliant and perfect between them, how deep he can take Rex and how he moans at it, how he’s making Cody fucking _swear_.

“Fuck, Rex,” Cody grits out, and Rex grins at what a show they must be, even here and like this, and what Obi-Wan’s mouth must feel like; but he’s a little far gone to keep up his favorite sport of teasing the commander. He has Kenobi’s ass under his hands, he’s been gripping it white; when he comes, burying himself hard, it is sudden and red-hot, and it’s all he can do to bend over and just shake there, struggling for breath.

Need is the easiest thing to shake. Want is harder. What becomes clear very quickly is how much Cody still needs, with him shifting beneath them and Obi-Wan, momentarily overwhelmed, mouths along the stern lines of his abdomen. Rex takes a deep breath; carefully extracts himself, pressing kisses into Obi-Wan’s hair and down the length of his spine – and then he leans down and, with a brief bite and a stroke down Obi-Wan’s thigh, lets out a whispered suggestion that maybe he should get the hell up there.

He takes a moment to collapse back, as Kenobi crawls over Cody, leaning up for a deep and searching kiss; it’s fucking hot, anyway, to watch Cody taking himself in hand and sliding carefully in (he’s missed that, will need it soon, but not tonight). There’s something reverent about the way Cody fucks the general, deep and slow, and Rex doubts it’ll go away anytime soon – they’re too similar, too aware of how they’re helping each other to some destination neither of them will acknowledge.

Rex sighs out the last of his adrenaline; when he kneels forward again and reaches out, his hands at the back of Obi-Wan’s neck and under his chin, the Jedi comes willingly, leaning back against Rex’s broad chest as Cody’s hands settle on his hips. When Rex reaches down and finally takes him in hand, Obi-Wan’s gasp is short and shocked; one of his hands flails outwards before Cody catches his wrist and gives him something to cling to.

“Missed you,” Rex mumbles into Obi-Wan’s neck, the tip of his thumb at the corner of Kenobi’s open mouth, not even sure he knows what he means by it.

Obi-Wan does, though, by the huff of air that he pants over Rex’s hand; Cody growls something wordless, then, and drives Kenobi up further into the grip of Rex’s arms, and Obi-Wan’s head falls back onto Rex’s shoulder, his knuckles turning white on each of their hands as he comes over Rex’s fingers, letting out not much more than a low groan that goes on in fits and starts for as long as he’s still in Rex’s hand, being stroked down.

Cody grunts, mumbles something, hauls himself upright just enough that he can fold them both up where they’re sitting; he kisses Rex over Obi-Wan’s shoulder, wordlessly reminding him of just what _they_ have, and will have, and where they are.

“Check it out,” he murmurs, his dark eyes firm on Rex. “We shut him up.”

“A miracle,” Rex rasps, and between them Obi-Wan, totally limp, lets out some sort of little non-syllabic noise which manages to pack in an incredible amount of fond exasperation.

Letting them take care – that’s how Obi-Wan takes care of them. Bundled gently back down between them, he is firmly pulled back against Cody’s chest, his arms around Rex’s neck; and when Rex falls asleep, with his back to the chilly openness of the cabin (so welcome, after the heat of the mines) he is a brand against their skin that Rex is likely to feel, he knows, for a very long time.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spenser is rolling in his grave. _Amoretti_ Sonnet 4:
> 
> NEw yeare forth looking out of Ianus gate,  
> Doth seeme to promise hope of new delight:  
> and bidding th'old Adieu, his passed date  
> bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish spright.  
> And calling forth out of sad Winters night,  
> fresh loue, that long hath slept in cheerlesse bower:  
> wils him awake, and soone about him dight  
> his wanton wings and darts of deadly power.  
> For lusty spring now in his timely howre,  
> is ready to come forth him to receiue:  
> and warnes the Earth with diuers colord flowre,  
> to decke hir selfe, and her faire mantle weaue.  
> Then you faire flowre, in who[m] fresh youth doth raine,  
> prepare your selfe new loue to entertaine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is almost all plot, sorry. But hopefully cute? *G*

*

*

“You _can’t_ be serious,” Bail says.

Mace Windu would be a very scary, impressive-looking man even if you didn’t know he was the Director of the Secret Service. As it is, he’s pretty fucking scary, and the agent standing quietly at his side seems to recognize that – enough, at least, that he raises half a fine eyebrow at Bail, and, perhaps, gives him a quick half-roll of his eyes to say _Yes, he does that_.

“I am perfectly serious, Senator. President Palpatine wishes me to send you his assurances that he is most concerned for your safety, and believes the Secret Service will be of help to you in this difficult time.”

“Let me get this straight,” Bail says, rubbing at his onrushing headache as he leans over his wide desk. “Because my staff happened to open a piece of probably-junk mail which ended up having a _totally unfounded_ , vague, completely naïve death threat in it, you think it’s a good idea to put me under full Secret Service protection _and_ plant an agent in my home as – ”

“Your fiancé,” Windu deadpans, and this time the other agent is definitely repressing a giggle. “That is correct, sir.”

Bail looks the agent up and down. _Damn it_ , he thinks, with rising despair. _They couldn’t have found me a neanderthal-type?_ “Which is – you?”

“Ben Kenobi, sir,” says the agent, with a respectful nod, and Bail’s stomach sinks even lower. “Yes.”

“Mr. Kenobi served with distinction in the Rangers before joining Secretary Amidala’s personal detail, Senator. He has also been the First Son’s bodyman for the past two years.”

“And you’re giving that up to come – apparently _marry_ me and watch out for a crackpot with a switchblade who might jump at me out of some bushes, if there even is such a person?” Bail asks, stunned.

“Anakin’s off to college, sir,” Kenobi says, still with that slightly-distant sense of amusement, “and I needed a vacation.”

The details come in a blizzard after that: meeting at a function in London to explain away Kenobi’s accent, which – Bail’s _fairly_ sure Secret Service agents are meant to be more American than the Cubs losing in October, but hey, he clearly knows nothing today – a whirlwind romance, a background in policy and thinktanks, an expected announcement to Bail’s constituents (which oh _God_ ) in a month or so in case the purported assassin needs to be drawn out into the open. There are even rings – heavy, solid silver things with a button on the inside so small Bail can barely press it which will act as a panic button and bring in a hovering _real_ detail if anything were to go pear-shaped.

It is all just a little bit insane, and by the time the two agents leave his office it’s about all Bail can do to just sit back down at his desk (Kenobi’s hand is warm and firm when he shakes it, and oh fuck, this is just so many different levels of _why_ ) and stare at nothing as Breha pops her head around the doorjamb, eyes wide.

“Damn it, B,” his chief of staff complains. “You _always_ get the hot ones!”

Kenobi shows up at his house that evening, wearing glasses and brogues and a waistcoat that leaves nothing to the imagination, every inch the worldly Englishman Bail has been telling himself for years that he’ll go looking for the second his Senate terms are up. Installing him in the spare bedroom in Bail’s home in Georgetown takes less time than the whispered conversation Bail immediately decides to have with Padme on his mobile while Kenobi quietly cases the house, peering into every room; her professed innocence breaks down quickly, which is the first thing that’s been fair about this entire affair.

“ _Of course I recommended him in particular. Are you mooning over him already? Good! And yes, of course he’s single. If you haven’t jumped him by the time I next see you I will be severely disappointed._ ”

“Did the whole ‘he’s at _work_ ’ thing not give you pause?”

“ _Fine. You jump him immediately after some loony tries to kill you and he gets to wrestle them to the ground. I saw it happen once. Very sexy._ ”

“I will write a memoir, Padme. You will never be President.”

“ _No one will believe you, darling_ ,” she says sweetly, and hangs up on him.

“I’m all set, sir,” Kenobi says from the doorway; Bail looks up to see him with his hands in his pockets, looking totally relaxed. “I have radio contact with two colleagues, one at each end of the block. They’ll be close by while you’re at your office, and I’ll take over when you’re here.”

“Right.” Bail stares for a minute before remembering himself. “Do I need to go to sleep before you, or – ”

“That’s preferable, sir, yes.”

“Bail,” he says, as he hauls himself to his feet.

“I’m sorry?”

“Bail. Not ‘sir.’”

“I’m authorized to address you familiarly when we’re in public, sir, but – ”

“I insist.”

Kenobi tilts his head, considers, and smiles, and damn Padme and all her wiles for knowing _exactly_ what (or rather who) will make Bail go weak at the knees. “Alright. Then I’m Ben.”

“Good. Well – good night.”

It all goes like you would expect, after that – or rather, like one would expect of a really, _really_ bad romcom of the sort Bail gave up on as a teenager (Breha still likes them, and so life at the office subsequently becomes a living hell). Ben is adorable in the mornings when he’s clearly been up for a while even when Bail wakes early, rough-voiced and sleepy-eyed; when they’re at a Senate function and Bail puts a hand on the small of Ben’s back to introduce him, it feels easy and _right_ and even more so when he thinks he feels Ben relax fractionally back into his touch. They go running on occasion, and Bail’s ring, still unfamiliar, feels heavy on his finger as Ben, in a Harvard t-shirt and slightly in front, sets a casually demanding pace, never seeming to break a sweat.

Ben doesn’t drink on the job, which, given Bail’s general state of mind whenever he’s around (which is all the time) feels like an obstacle to be overcome – but he’s not averse to talking, when he’s taking a break from looking over the evidence of Bail’s mail records and past dealings and Bail is taking a break from his House security memos in the late evenings, so that’s how they start, and, mostly, how they end.

“Hypothetically,” Bail says one night, when he’s very tired and it’s starting to feel like winter and it’s been three weeks, now, that they’ve kept up the charade – “hypothetically, what would your job be if there was actually a killer after me?”

“Depends entirely on the circumstances,” Ben calls, as he’s throwing away the remnants of their takeout dinner. (Their mutual descent into cohabiting-bachelordom has been noticeable and acute.) “If we track him down through textual evidence I hand over what I have to my colleagues, they raid the guy’s house, it’s done.”

Bail rolls his head towards Ben on the back of his chair. “And if somebody runs at me with a gun?”

“Then I take the bullet,” Ben says calmly, like it’s nothing, and sits back down with his papers.

“Huh,” Bail says slowly. “And after that?”

“After?” Ben asks, with a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Which hypothetical are you talking about?”

“All the ones where you’re still – you know – alive.”

“I go back on duty at the White House, and you get your spare room back.”

Bail swallows. “And if I have something else in mind?”

Ben doesn’t look at him; his shrug is small, elegant, and manages to convey all the necessary disapproval Bail knows he deserves, as well as keeping every option tantalizingly, infuriatingly open. “I guess we should just wait and see – Bail.”

The universe takes note of Bail’s conspiring soon after – so soon after, in fact, that it’s even more bewildering than it should be. It’s seven a.m. when they go for their run, and in the shade of the nearby university there’s a shadow which hurls itself at Bail from a side street as they round a corner; Ben is on the man immediately, scrabbling for control of a weapon Bail can’t make out as he stumbles back and nearby early passers-by and students startle and scatter; the button inside his ring makes a sharp clicking sound when pressed, and by the time the unmarked and police cars scream up onto the curb Ben is on top of the would-be assailant with a knee firmly planted in the middle of his back and shouting furious things straight out of a cop serial, but all Bail can see is the knife lying on the concrete, slowly spinning, and very definitely bloodied.

He’s grabbed by one of the arriving agents before he can say anything, shoved into a car and driven quickly to the nearby university hospital for an evaluation despite his strident protests that he’s _fine_ , damnit, and just wants to go home. It’s an hour before Breha arrives, quietly frantic, and two more before Director Windu finally calls in and gives the stern-faced agents keeping him there the go-ahead to release him; by the time it’s evening, and he’s finally alone at home, without knowing who or where to call, it’s all so exhausting that he just wants to sleep – and, unmercifully, discovers that of course he can’t.

The ring of his doorbell at five is a relief; to find Ben standing outside, hands back in his pockets and pale but alive, clearly _so_ alive, perhaps the best thing Bail’s ever seen.

“Bounced off my ribs,” the agent says, with a shrug, and a sparkling grin. “No problem.”

“You’re off-duty?”

Something in Ben’s eyes goes a shade darker at that, and his breath deepens. “Entirely.”

Bail has to be gentle, to make sure (for his own sake, because he suspects Ben doesn’t give a damn – bloody masochist) he doesn’t disturb bandages and neat lines of stitches; he keeps Ben on his back on the sofa by the fireplace, shivering at the deep press of Bail’s fingers. He’s still coherent at one, matching Bail’s slow kisses; he starts moaning at two, and at the long strokes of three he turns desperate, whispering that damn it, he won’t break, _please –_ and Bail just continues slowly on, bringing him down again, relishing that he _has_ the time to do this, now, to keep them both ever so carefully on yet another edge.

It’s a slow twist of Bail’s hand, finally, that leaves Ben rapidly panting the first curses Bail has ever heard him say into the side of Bail’s neck; his revenge is just as gently taken, his hand dragging at Bail’s cock until he leans down at the last moment and teases Bail’s orgasm out of him with his tongue. It’s only then, when they’re sleepily rearranging themselves into some semblance of positions which will let them sleep without putting too much pressure on Ben’s side (because hell no, Bail is not going to be more than a few inches away from any skin), that Ben once again starts laughing, and only shakes his head at the quizzical look on Bail’s face.

“Secretary Amidala’s going to clean up on this one,” he whispers into Bail’s ear, and, grinning, reaches up above both of them to turn out the lights.

*


	3. Chapter 3

*

*

Padme and Anakin meet on the first night of term, when he’s sorted into Slytherin and she into Ravenclaw; they first meet Obi-Wan on the following morning when, confident and calm, the school’s recently-graduated, new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor puts them through their first paces with a simple disarming charm. With his heart still in his throat and still nervously embarrassed of his patched robes, Anakin finds it a great relief that the young teacher, with messy hair and the beginnings of a beard which helps (barely) in making him look less like the teenager he so recently was, has such a gift for putting them all at ease, and a certainty of strength in the way he corrects their stammering pronunciation, their weak and shaky grips on their wands.

“He’s a Hufflepuff, I can tell,” Padme says confidently at lunch, while she pores over her already much-loved books. “He’s so nice.”

“What can you tell about me from my being in Slytherin?” Anakin asks, shyly, and her small grin turns conspiratorial.

“Oh, don’t worry, Ani,” she giggles. “I’m sure you’re not like _them_.”

Her name appears on Anakin’s palm when he is thirteen. Panicked, he tries to scrub off the meandering, beautiful pen-strokes of silver, but is, of course, completely unsuccessful; when he sneaks back into Professor Kenobi’s office after class and, blushing, shows it to him, Kenobi’s only answer is to hum gently, and carefully inspect Anakin’s hand.

“You’re quite young for it,” he says eventually, kindly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not real, Anakin. Do you know if she – ?”

“No,” Anakin mumbles, miserably. “I don’t think so, anyway. I’ve never seen it.”

“Ah. Then you know you’ll have to wait – well, I should hope you’d wait anyway, young man,” Kenobi continues, raising an eyebrow. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Anakin gulps. “Gloves?”

“I’d say so. And quickly, too.”

Anakin is seventeen and powerful with it, one of the most prolific Chasers his house has ever had and Obi-Wan’s star pupil, favored by his laughter and tutoring and stern encouragement, when Padme finds him in the Great Hall, one of her fists clenched and her eyes wide. She’s supposed to be running a meeting of the Student Council (which she started, of course, in their fourth year), so he knows it’s serious, tries to grab gently at her wrist.

“What’s wrong?”

She says nothing – simply opens her bloodless fingers, shows him his own name scrawled luminescently across her palm, and, with tears in her eyes, gives him a blinding smile.

They are married at eighteen. The war breaks out on their wedding day.

With Hogwarts shut, the Ministry of Magic is flooded with young students eager to make their mark, being turned away in terror if they are underage; but, luckily for them, Padme and Anakin get the office they want in the Auror division, and when, on their second day, there is a quiet rap at their door and Obi-Wan is standing there with a carton of books, his beloved and well-used quills already in their inkwell, they find space for him at their huddle of desks in a hurry. He’s grown tired, Anakin thinks, as the years have passed, but never anything less than his usual steady self; he looks his age, now, dignified and commanding, and they take to his lead like ducks to water.

It takes two years in that room – two years of group missions, of each of them saving each other’s lives from indiscriminate Death Eaters again and over again, of tramping through ruins and bodies in the middle of dark nights, of breathless duels and encounters with fabulous beasts and dangers barely understood, until it happens. When it does, Anakin is hardly even surprised, and neither is Padme – they simply sit there together in their bed, quietly, first thing in the morning, holding each other’s hands, tracing new letters as they shimmer, uncertainly, in and out of existence.

“Should we tell him?” Padme whispers.

“I don’t know what we would say. I’ve never seen him bear any name.”

“He told me he had one, once,” Padme says, shaking her head. At Anakin’s surprised look, she only shrugs, helplessly. “He said he died.”

Anakin looks at Obi-Wan so closely over the next week that he can’t help but be noticed. There have been stranger things, he knows, after all – they’ve all grown up on tales of new names added and others disappearing, of some who bear their lover’s name even after they are widowed, of those who met their intended and ran away, weeping, crushed by the wrongness of fate.

There have been stranger things, all in all (though Anakin had always thought they were urban legends – he has never been so wrong) than the idea that Obi-Wan might have a Concealment Charm on his person, hiding away such an essential part of himself like he hides away, as best as he can, the fear he feels for them every time they are out in the field, the protective terror that manifests itself in fierce embraces when he knows they’re safe and his silent presence outside their front door at night, like some angelic sentinel.

And so they go to him, and they show him his name on their hands, and he just stands there and stares.

“No,” he says, bluntly, just as Anakin is about to speak. “No, I will not – damn it, I will not inflict yet another grief upon you both.”

His expression is heartbreaking, keeping what looks like years of yearning repressed. “You’re both so young,” he sighs.

“Show me,” Padme demands, and, reluctantly, Obi-Wan’s hand opens into hers, and the layers of the enchantment peel back – there are scars of an older soul there, deep under the skin, blurred and indistinct, but the names of _Amidala_ and _Skywalker_ are as clear as day.

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” Padme breathes. “How long?”

“A year.”

“Fuck that,” Anakin says, and only shakes his head in the face of Padme’s stern glare. He takes Obi-Wan’s other hand in his; traces the lines of veins and knuckles with the tip of one of his fingers, presses the gentlest kiss he can muster to his thumb and listens, somehow enraptured, to Obi-Wan’s sudden intake of breath.

“Home,” Padme says hoarsely, and Apparates all three of them to their bedroom.

He would have done this anyway, Anakin thinks, later, when Obi-Wan’s head is pillowed on Padme’s breast and she is murmuring soothing words to him while Anakin kisses his way down a straining abdomen, curling into the sensation of trembling fingers in his hair. Padme’s chin fits perfectly into the hollow of Obi-Wan’s palm, and no soulmark would ever have changed that, made it more or less true. Obi-Wan’s nails scrape into the exact right spots in Anakin’s scalp when Anakin takes him into his mouth, and no flashes of fickle skin could make any of this less or more right.

Obi-Wan has always had talented hands, ones which can correct, teach, admonish, praise, and punish. To put them to work at love, if it is the work of fate, might – Anakin thinks, when he and Padme get their sweet, tortuous, eternal reciprocation – be its greatest achievement.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: could be read as dubcon.**

*

*

It hasn’t been easy to find him.  

Vader has scoured the earth, searched through hell in case fate decided, for once, to do the right thing; he has snuck around the edges of what is left of heaven, peering into the devastation that was of his own making, searching, always searching – and has come up empty-handed, every time.  

The fact that he finds Kenobi in the end is, therefore, not the only surprising thing about it. No – the surprising thing is that he would be _here_ , of all places, in surroundings so unsuited to what he was (though amongst, Vader realizes, just the sorts of pathetic life forms he had been so fond of – the bums trying to hitch a ride, the strung-out travelers glumly sipping lukewarm diner coffee in the middle of the night). He looks worn down, like this is his last place to hide, and certainly like he doesn’t belong; the patches in the elbows of his once-trim jacket are real, his hair grown ragged, though still neatly-parted. 

“Hello, Obi-Wan,” Vader says, and slips into the booth, putting his leather-clad hands on the table. He luxuriates in the human, now, as he has never done before – revels in the sensations of his body, and the excitement that he is allowed to recognize, now, rather than suppress or expunge. “It’s been a long time.” 

“Not long enough,” Kenobi sighs. His hands, around his mug of tea, are limp and pale. 

Vader’s newfound power never fails to amuse him – one flick of his hand and Kenobi is flying sideways through the window of the dirt-stained rest stop, shards of glass exploding around them both. He’s recovered enough to stagger upright again by the time Vader has sauntered out to the parking lot, but not enough to fight back – where is his strength, Vader wonders snidely as, with a single shove of his hand, he sends him flying backwards again – where is his light, his disgustingly pure soul? Where are his shield, his sword of flame and righteousness? 

The car Obi-Wan has fetched up against, panting, looks familiar. Dimly, Vader remembers joyrides from before his Fall; remembers blue paint (chipped now) and gold chrome (faded) that he had been proud to assemble himself. It just makes him grin, now, as he sandwiches Kenobi against the hood – the irony is delicious. 

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes. “And I know you’ve missed me, despite all your running.” 

“Not _you_ ,” Obi-Wan snarls, but he goes limp and pliable nonetheless when Vader kisses him, when he forces his tongue into Kenobi’s mouth, sucks out his lower lip between his teeth, hips firmly caught and held by his hands, strong as iron. 

“God,” Kenobi hisses, tearing himself briefly away. 

“I killed him,” Vader grins, baring all his teeth. “Don’t you remember?” 

That’s it, that’s what does it – that’s what makes the spark come back into Obi-Wan’s eyes, restarts the ages-old battle between anger and justice, fury and calm. It’s not enough, though, not yet; he’s still not strong enough to deny that he wants this, to deny the tug and pull of Vader’s hands in his hair as their mouths come together again – to tear back from Vader’s fingers under his waistband, the push of a leg between his thighs. He’s panting and desperate for it (how long has it been, Vader wonders briefly, since he was touched – since they last did this? Could it have been centuries?) when Vader flips him over and pins him to the hood, shoving back into Vader’s touch on his spine. 

“Shameless,” Vader chuckles, and strokes long fingers into Kenobi’s ass, leans down to bite and lick. “If He could see you now.” 

“Shut _up_ , Anakin,” Kenobi groans, and Vader isn’t even going to try to pretend, as he stands upright again and takes what was always his, that he doesn’t feel the weight of that name shudder through him as though it is made of the Lord’s own thunder. 

He hasn’t forgotten this, either – the noises Kenobi makes when he’s being fucked, like he’s losing the ability to breathe bit by bit, the clutch of his hand backwards to Vader’s hip; the twist of his arm against the dented car, the muffled shout of outrage when Vader grabs at his neck, kisses it, bends so close into him that he’s buried too deep and can barely even keep moving forward. 

It happens suddenly; Obi-Wan clenches around him, falls flat on his face and lets out a hoarse scream with his face buried in the crook of his arm. Vader’s head spins, takes him on a glorious trip of sensation that feels so fully _human_ that it almost makes it all worth it. 

“Still got it, old man,” he sighs, relishing the bonelessness of his limbs as he pushes spread-out hands slowly up Kenobi’s shuddering back. “We should do this more often.” 

Kenobi turns so fast that it must be supernatural, and indeed it is – his eyes are ablaze with light, every muscle of him turned to liquid metal as he knocks Anakin down, stands over him like a vision of death. 

“Well, well,” Vader sniggers, rubbing at his bruised jaw. “How ironic. Has Satan fucked the life back into His favorite angel?” 

Kenobi leans towards him; his voice is as the peal of trumpets. “The next time we meet,” he murmurs, “I will have raised an army against you.” 

“Bring it on,” Vader grins. 

 _Farewell_ , says the air, and there is a flash of wings, of light the intensity of creation, and he is gone. 

Vader puts his head back on the asphalt and laughs up at the cloudless sky. 

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt ended up being the perfect insert for [my VentrObi spies AU!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4532856/chapters/10315518) Hope you enjoy.

*

*

It’s a surprise, at first, to realize that Kenobi trusts her absolutely, without doubt or compunction. He trusts her, when they’re apart, not to do what he would not have her do (and she doesn’t, and hates herself for it); he trusts her when they’re together, with body and mind, and puts himself in her hands and at her mercy so willingly that she doesn’t betray him solely to maintain the anticipation that, one day, she might. It’s perhaps the thing Asajj finds both most enjoyable and the most troubling about their relationship – something she shouldn’t take pleasure in, something she should rather run from, but one which she can’t seem to let go. 

It’s trust which allows her to do this – to approach him when he’s sleeping, knowing that if she were any other person on earth, he would be awake and planning his defense by the time she came within ten feet of him. It’s trust which lets her slip onto the bed beside him, naked and stretching in the early dawn light spilling through their ( _their_ ) Parisian windows, to slide hands around his wrists and, as he mumbles and turns, leave them above his head and gently, ever so gently, kept there with knots only she knows how to untie. 

And it’s trust which has him smiling at the touch of her hand; elicits the quirk in his grin and the brief groan as he starts to come awake, testing what she has done to him, settling with a sigh onto his back with his hands loose in their bonds and angling his hips upwards into her hands. 

“Well,” he rasps, and half-opens his eyes. “This is new.” 

“Is it?” she says sweetly, rolling the ring further down onto him and watching his eyelids flutter. “Admit it, Kenobi. This is _exactly_ what you’ve expected of me.” 

“True enough, my dear,” he says, and raises an eyebrow as she settles next to him. “What next?”  

“Oh – I thought we’d just talk,” she says lazily. “Since you’re so fond of it.” 

That has needled him, as she thought it might; though he retains, as ever, some modicum of the control which makes him so formidable, perhaps in this case he would rather be handled. “What about?” 

“Up to you, Kenobi,” she yawns. “I’ve done _my_ work here.” 

He looks her up and down, at the long lines of her back and legs. “Truth or dare?” he says casually. 

“How original of you,” she sniggers. “Dare.” 

“Touch me.” 

She snorts, and makes as if to get up entirely and leave him there. “As if, Kenobi – ” 

Damn, but he’s fast, and deceptively strong – something she keeps managing to forget – and his legs are like iron as his calves hook around her knees, pull her like they’re on a judo mat directly onto him, and just like that they’re both hissing as she slides along his length, the ring pressing into her as she struggles to lift herself upright. 

“Cheating,” she snarls.  

“Your turn,” he pants back, and she wants to slap his smug grin right off of his face. 

“Truth or dare?”  

“I think we’re past the point of the former being relevant, darling,” he groans. 

“Kiss me.” 

He tries, and is quick enough that at first, he nearly succeeds – but she’s got him pinned, now, and with his hands fisted around the leather thongs and his head between his arms he can’t reach, as she keeps her mouth always an inch away from his half-open one, matching his lidded eyes, chuckling deep in her throat. 

“Do you trust me, Kenobi?” she asks, as he moans and gives up, letting his head fall back as she rolls down onto him, reaching down between her legs and squeezing him tight; for some reason she wants to hear it said out loud, to confirm all her suspicions. 

“Asking for a truth, Asajj?” he mumbles; his breath cuts off suddenly, and he swallows hard, as she takes hold of the ring. “It’s my turn.” 

“Fine,” she purrs, and crosses her arms on his chest. “Shoot. So to speak.” 

“Stay,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed, and she has no idea – and thinks she is not meant to – whether he is asking for a truth, or setting her a dare. 

“My turn,” she whispers, delaying her answer, and reaches down again. “Do you trust me?” 

“Always,” he forces out, and she pulls the ring off of him, lunges forward and kisses him hard enough that his shout reverberates down her neck, their hips crushed together as he comes between them. 

“Mm,” she says lazily, once he’s started to get his breath back, still sucking and worrying gently at his open mouth. “I think I won that game.” 

“Oh,” he sighs, turning his head sideways and smiling against her scalp, his reddened fingers finally opening and stretching, returning feeling to his wrists. “Is that what this was?”  

“Could it have been anything else, my sweet?” is the only reply she makes; she gets up, pulls his dressing gown around her, leaves him with a saunter that says she won’t be coming back to release him for some time. 

His laughter follows her, and lets her know that he knew all along what her answer would have been.

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Vaguely inspired by parts of Mission Impossible 4._

*

*

It takes him six months to track Obi-Wan down, and another three weeks to decide whether he’s actually going to do this. His decision, as most of his are, is finally taken on impulse – a strong, overwhelming sense as he wakes up one morning that fuck it, _he_ has nothing to lose, and if it does even a modicum of good he’ll hate himself for the rest of his life if he _doesn’t_ do it.

So he drives his borrowed truck out into the woods of Acadia, and two hours later, pulls up outside the little ramshackle cabin, surrounded by honeysuckle and wild blueberry bushes, shuts off the engine, and waits.

After an hour, waiting is starting to seem self-defeating, as well as a little creepy – so he gets out, shuts the door, meanders towards the cracked front step with his hands in his pockets – and only pauses when he hears the hammers of the shotgun being pulled back, the deep click of an imminent blast echoing from behind the screen door.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Obi-Wan calls, calm as ever. He’s not visible in the darkness beyond the thick mesh as Anakin blinks and holds his hands out gingerly to his sides, in some futile attempt to reassure that he means no harm.

“It’s really me,” he begins. “I know that sounds crazy, but it is.”

Silence, for a long moment – and then the door creaks slowly open, and Obi-Wan is standing there in the bright light of afternoon, just staring at him. The beard is new, and Anakin rather likes it; the readiness to kill in his stance and the only half-lowered shotgun barrel, the preternatural stillness of the sniper, is very not-new, and very dangerous.

“So,” he says finally, staring brutally at Anakin as though afraid that if he blinks, everything he sees will disappear. “One of two things is happening here. Either I’ve finally gone insane, or you _faked your fucking death_.”

“The latter,” Anakin says, nodding, feeling far more chipper than he ought. “You’re good at this.”

Something hitches in Obi-Wan’s throat. “Padme?”

“She’s safe. Gave birth a month or so back. She insists you come back and be their godfather. Seattle’s nice. Well, I mean, not _nice_ if you hate rain, which she does, but they’ve got a pretty darn good local witness protection scheme going – ”

“Jesus _fuck_ , Anakin!” Obi-Wan shouts; he turns to one side, hurls the shotgun as far away from him as he can, and then slumps, clearly exhausted, back against the siding of the house, running a distracted hand through his hair.

Anakin grins, his heart bounding, and walks carefully up to Obi-Wan, puts a hand on either side of his head, against the crumbling wood of the cabin. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Check it out. I’m really here.”

“So I see,” Obi-Wan says faintly, but he _is_ smiling, reluctantly, like he’s waking from some sort of nightmare with the certainty that when he next sleeps, he won’t dream at all. “Anakin – ”

“Shh,” Anakin whispers, and leans in – Obi-Wan’s beard is scratchy against his mouth, his skin unfamiliar except for the taste, but when Obi-Wan moans into him he still sounds the same, like all those lazy mornings they’d managed to take with each other when they were running around the world doing this crazy job, never expecting anything but always wanting more.

“Turn around,” Anakin murmurs, excitement curling in his stomach, once Obi-Wan is panting and reaching out for him, a flush risen into his cheeks. Obi-Wan does so with a groan, bracing his forehead on his arms and waiting for Anakin to take him apart piece by piece.

He starts with the finely-muscled back, pushing up a shirt dirty with sweat and the remnants of yardwork and kissing his way down Obi-Wan’s spine; when he reaches around to undo the buckle of Obi-Wan’s belt there is a brief shove as Obi-Wan tries to push into his hand, but that’s not what Anakin wants. He wants this – Obi-Wan’s ass beneath his palms, the shudder and gasp that he gets when his tongue sets to work.

“You did such a fucking fantastic job,” he says, sweetly, when Obi-Wan is hissing through gritted teeth and Anakin is standing up again behind him, snaking his hands firmly around bony hips, his cock nudging upwards. “No one could have done it like you, Obi-Wan. I knew you’d never leave us to be avenged by anyone else.”

“Yes, I took out an entire mob for you both, for fuck’s sake, I _don’t care_ ,” Obi-Wan grits out, his hands balling into fists. “Anakin, please – ”

“I missed you,” Anakin sighs, with his mouth at Obi-Wan’s nape, and fucks slowly in; Obi-Wan is instantly warm and supple in his arms, his head falling back onto Anakin’s shoulder, and it’s easy to kiss him like that, wet and open-mouthed, slowly slanting his hips until Obi-Wan goes rigid against him, rasping something wordless into his neck, and just as suddenly goes slack, leaving Anakin to take his jaw in one hand and trap him strongly around the waist with his other arm just to keep him up on his feet.

“I guess you missed me too,” he groans as his own hands go grasping, and Obi-Wan clenches around him at his last, deepest stroke. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Rude as ever,” Obi-Wan grouses, though he looks better, now, so much better, color returned to his face and some sort of self-awareness to his features as he sighs, turns, wraps Anakin up in his arms.

“Don’t you _ever_ do that again,” he whispers.

“Sure. It’s your turn next.”

“ _Anakin_.”

“Alright, fine. But I’m just saying – Mexico is beautiful this time of year. They’re not so careful about checking for people on the run heading in the _opposite_ direction…”

Yeah, Anakin thinks happily, as he gets to hear Obi-Wan’s laugh again. He’s done some good here, today. And he doesn’t regret a thing.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading these! This series is now done, but I am always open to quickie prompts [on my tumblr](http://commonplacecaz.tumblr.com/). (At the moment - August '16 - I'm super swamped by Other Huge Life Things, but I'll finally have time to write again very soon. Drop by and see me sometime!)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Prepare Yourself New Love to Entertain: Prompt 3 (Harry Potter Soulmarks AU) [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13265535) by [bessyboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bessyboo/pseuds/bessyboo)




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